


Then I Knew, Oh Then I Knew

by ineffablefool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (i hope it's really light this time??? i don't want anyone to cry), (nobody says the word but they both know what they mean), (not a main focus but he will always be lovely and round when i write him), Asexual Relationship, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, No Sex, No Smut, Other, Pining, Post-Canon, aziraphale is a sad conifer, i'm soft this is soft welcome to the Soft Zone(TM), lil bit of ableist language, oh also one of my tags is wrong but i don't know how to fix it without it ending up at the end, so is crowley but this is from aziraphale's pov, so technically ONE of them says the L word but not the other, some internalized fatphobia on aziraphale's part, sorry - Freeform, third tag is incorrect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: Aziraphale didn’t understand why Crowley keptstaring.  Oh, he’d always been a wonderful listener, of course.  He’d joined Aziraphale for countless lunches and dinners over the centuries, following along, nodding or tossing in a question at all the right places, at leastseemingto make eye contact from behind the dratted glasses.  It was one of the touchstones of their relationship, that Crowley was a good listener.Or — theirfriendship.  Yes.  Absolutely that.  “Relationship”, really, what a foolish slip of thought.(Ever since the world didn't end, Aziraphale feels like Crowley has been acting strangely.  He certainly can't figure out why!)





	Then I Knew, Oh Then I Knew

**Author's Note:**

> Who would like another look at how the first kiss between these two immortal conifers might have gone, with a solidly asexual-and-fat-positive lens? It involves Crowley looking at Aziraphale, like, _all the time_ post-apocalypse-and-bodyswap. And touching him more often, too! What could it mean???
> 
> I hope that this is... a little easier, emotionally speaking, than my last story apparently was. There's some pining, but not, y'know, fifty years of it. And just a little bit of internalized fatphobia in Aziraphale's dialogue and his internal narration, but not much, I don't think. I just wanted to write another one where he doesn't realize yet that his body is perfect regardless of what it looks like. (So is yours, human or human-like entity reading this! I say so, and I make the rules, also because I say so.)
> 
> I'm writing for the TV characterization, but I've decided that my written Aziraphale's body is shaped like how Tumblr user speremint draws him (([1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) (dotstronaut also draws [a gorgeous Aziraphale here](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how) with a lovely round face)), because I much prefer to imagine that as I work. Please also imagine that as you read!
> 
> Title is from ["When The Lovelight Starts Shining Through His Eyes" by The Supremes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QE0qaIk8LRo). Technically I just spoiled the reason why Crowley is staring. But did you really expect it would be anything else?

Aziraphale didn’t understand why Crowley kept _staring_.

Oh, he’d always been a wonderful listener, of course. He’d joined Aziraphale for countless lunches and dinners over the centuries, and no matter what topic Aziraphale might have cared to talk about, Crowley would always be attentive. He’d follow along, nodding or tossing in a question at all the right places, at least _seeming_ to make eye contact from behind the dratted glasses. It was one of the touchstones of their relationship, that Crowley was a good listener.

Or — their _friendship_. Yes. Absolutely that. “Relationship”, really, what a foolish slip of thought.

But lately, it did seem as though Crowley was... well, even more enthralled with their conversations than usual. And Aziraphale had on more than one occasion caught him with some odd emotion on his face. It was always gone nearly as quick as he could spot it, replaced with a smirk or a raised eyebrow or just a blank look. But it was still there, in that instant when Aziraphale would turn around suddenly enough, or happen to glance over the top of a book or menu. An unguarded, oddly sensitive expression.

Aziraphale happened to have a mirror in one of the back rooms of his shop, just an old antique he’d never bothered to throw away, and he’d examined himself in it a few times, trying to see what might be so interesting. Was he different, somehow? He didn’t see anything changed. The same old white-fluff hair still grew atop his head. No change to his face, still a little worn, and round everywhere that Crowley’s face would be slender. Same blueish eyes. Same body, round again, _portly_, to be honest, although Aziraphale supposed he didn’t mind too much, generally. There was a certain familiar comfort in the weight of this form, the gentle wideness of him under his same old clothes. Yes, those too, unchanged — nothing different at all that he could see. No explanation as to why he kept feeling Crowley’s gaze on him, why he kept catching the demon with that peculiarly _vulnerable_ expression.

“Crowley,” he had said, once, at dinner. The rest of the sentence had been in his mouth, occupying the spot last claimed by a bite of very splendid woodruff mousse. _Why on earth do you keep looking at me like that_, that unspoken sentence would go. _It’s terribly unsettling, and I don’t think I like it_.

Crowley had tilted his head, just a little, and Aziraphale felt as though the demon’s eyes had shifted to meet his. “Yeah?”

The problem was that the sentence ended in something close to a lie. Aziraphale _might_ like it, he thought. Possibly. If he could make sense of it.

He’d swapped out that sentence for another. “Shall we order another bottle of Lafite-Rothschild, do you think? Or continue back at mine?”

* * *

The touching, now. That was another thing which had changed since the apocalypse.

There had always been tiny points of contact between them, mostly accidental, ones which absolutely did not make Aziraphale’s heart lurch drunkenly whenever they happened. Handshakes, now and then. Brushes of fingers when passing back and forth a glass, or a bottle. Or a bag of books, once.

Not that Aziraphale ever thought about that anymore.

But it seemed now as though the touches were more frequent, more lingering. Once, Aziraphale had moved to pay the bill and Crowley had put a hand on his wrist, shaking his head, smirking. Two of the demon’s fingers had lain across Aziraphale’s bare skin like thin brands of fire, and the hand had not been moved for several seconds.

On a stroll through the park, they’d been passed suddenly by a rowdy bunch of hooligans, and Crowley had grabbed Aziraphale’s arm, pulling them both over to the side of the pavement. The backs of his fingers had rested, just a light contact, against Aziraphale’s jacket, barely pressing into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s side. Once the interruption had gone and the demon had pulled away, it was in an utterly casual way, and he had begun walking again, fingers shoved into the pockets of those ludicrously tight trousers. Back on their previous topic of conversation with no acknowledgment of what had just happened.

Aziraphale had tried then, too, a few minutes later. “Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

The question had not survived the smile on Crowley’s face. 

_Why did you touch me just now?_

_(Would you perhaps be willing to do it again?)_

“Never mind.” He’d tried to pretend the warmth rising to his face had been for completely-non-demon-related reasons.

The problem, of course, was just that: Crowley was a demon. Only technically, perhaps, especially after the End, after he and Aziraphale had broken away from everything except each other. But Aziraphale was, technically, still an angel. And Crowley was still a demon.

And demons didn’t fall in love, no matter how much certain angels might have wished that they did.

Aziraphale had been aware of this for six thousand years. For most of that time, it had been a simple fact: ducks swim. Angels perform blessings. Demons don’t love. It had only been more recently that he’d realized how much bearing this particular fact had on him. Or — _would_ have on him, of course, if he had been at all concerned. If, in fact, he himself had been in love with a demon. Perhaps so in love with a demon that it was really rather alarming.

Which was absolutely not the case, so no concern there.

* * *

It was a Tuesday evening, cool and sharp. September was winding down now, almost October, almost dark. Lights and a few very early Halloween decorations showing in the shop windows as the two of them made their gradual way along the pavement. They weren’t going anywhere in particular, not anymore; they’d been walking back from dinner, headed toward the Bentley (”It’s _such_ a lovely night, Crowley, mightn’t we park a bit away and walk?”, Aziraphale had asked on the way to the restaurant; and Crowley, grumbling, had acquiesced). But as they neared their destination now, neither had actually stopped. They’d walked right past the car, arms swinging not quite close enough to touch. Aziraphale couldn’t say what Crowley might have been thinking in that moment. He, though, was thinking about the dinner they’d just shared.

He’d eaten... something, he couldn’t remember what, and wasn’t that odd? Ordinarily he could recall every flavor, every morsel to pass his lips. Crowley had picked at something, sticking mostly to wine, as usual. They had talked about the same things they always did: Crowley’s plants and Aziraphale’s books. The past, the drawn-out past, and the hesitant future.

And Crowley had stared at Aziraphale. Lord, he had _stared_.

There were still those sunglasses, the blasted things, letting Crowley keep his secrets tucked away when everything Aziraphale felt was always all over his face like a roadside billboard. But he’d seemed to feel the weight of those yellow eyes all the same. When Aziraphale gestured, Crowley’s head seemed to track the movement. When he spoke, Crowley leaned ever closer to hear. When he sipped his wine —

He could almost feel that gaze leaving his eyes, settling somewhere lower. Perhaps settling on his lips.

No wonder he could barely even remember having eaten, then, with all that to worry about.

_Crowley could probably tell me exactly what I ate._

He pushed the thought away with a shiver.

“Mm?” Crowley looked over at him. “Cold, angel?”

“N-no.” _If I said yes, you wouldn’t do anything, surely._ “Goose walking over my grave, you know.”

“Morbid.”

“It’s just an _expression_, Crowley.”

“It’s a _morbid_ expression.”

They came to a corner, the light red against their progress. Aziraphale expected Crowley to just miracle it green, but instead he slouched against a lamppost, hands still in pockets. Looking in what might have been almost any direction, with that casual tilt of his head, but Aziraphale had his doubts.

He tugged his waistcoat down, hands brushing over the expanse of his stomach, just to give himself something to do. The angle of light reflecting from Crowley’s glasses shifted, just a little.

_Staring again. At... my hands, is it? What is he playing at?_

_(It can’t be that he... no. Demons don’t...)_

The light changed.

“Come on, then,” Crowley said, pushing off from the post and meandering across the street.

Aziraphale gave himself a little shake, then hurried to catch up. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Do we have to be going anywhere?”

“Only — only, we passed the Bentley, a while ago.”

“Suppose we did.”

“And now we’re just,” Aziraphale waved his hands at their general surroundings, “walking.”

“We are doing that, yeah.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale stopped on the pavement, holding an arm in front of Crowley so he’d stop too. He stepped in front of the demon, trying to peer through the glasses, to work out what on earth was going on. “You —”

_I don’t want to know._

_I **do** want to know._

_(What if he did... if he **could**...)_

Oh, bother.

“Crowley,” he began again. He pulled his hands behind his back, bouncing on his toes. “I feel as though... well, as though you’ve been acting differently, lately.” He thought he saw something tighten in Crowley’s face, and he went on before he could be interrupted. “You’ve... that is to say, you’ve been...”

_Staring at me, like you can’t stop doing it. Touching me, like you want to._

Ridiculous. Of course, ridiculous. And it wasn’t even as though it was something Aziraphale wanted, anyway. He just needed to ask for clarification, and then Crowley would give it, and it would all be perfectly reasonable and not something Aziraphale had to worry about ever again.

Aziraphale glanced up and down the pavement. No one else in evidence at the moment, but he decided it would be convenient if the two of them could stay miraculously alone for a bit, just long enough to sort this out. There. Done.

“Could you please take off your glasses? I have no idea what you’re doing in there.”

“Looking at you, angel, what else would I be doing?” But Crowley obliged, at least, pulling off the sunglasses and tucking them into a pocket.

That was better, but somehow worse, because now Aziraphale was faced with those eyes, the ones which were admittedly rather striking, but which definitely did not haunt the daydreams which he equally definitely did not have. They seemed to avoid his own eyes for a moment, matched by that same oddly vulnerable expression which he’d noticed before.

Aziraphale worried at his bottom lip. The silence between them grew teeth and began to gnash around in his stomach. He couldn’t very well _start_ by asking about the touching, could he? No doubt the other part would be better. More neutral.

He couldn’t decide what to do with his hands. Pulled them out from his back to lace the fingers against his belly, for a moment, then lowered them stiffly to his sides. Crowley’s eyes flickered downward at the motion, and that turned out to be the final straw.

“You have been _staring_ at me, Crowley. And I —” he hesitated, not wanting to put too fine a point on it, but — “I demand to know why.”

He thought it was a trick of the light, at first — some strange effect of the streetlights, casting them both in uneven shadows — but no, there it was, creeping over the demon’s face. Crowley was _blushing_. Had he ever seen _that_ before?

It was actually quite fetching.

Crowley jammed his hands in his pockets almost hard enough to get them to actually fit, turning away to look at something off to Aziraphale’s left. He muttered something into his own shoulder.

“What?”

“I _said_,” turning back to look at Aziraphale again, “I _didn’t think_ you’d _noticed_.”

Aziraphale gaped. “So you thought it would be all right if I didn’t _notice_, just — assumed it wouldn’t be _incredibly rude_ —”

“Of course I’m rude!” Crowley thumped himself on the chest. “Demon!”

“Do you really think I believe that rot?!”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. Crowley stared, although at least this was one Aziraphale understood. A _what’s gotten into you, then _sort of thing.

“You’ve been doing quite a lot of it lately, ever since all that in Tadfield. And after.” He took a deep breath. “And it’s only been getting _worse_, and I have no idea what’s changed, I truly don’t; I mean, there’s nothing wrong with me, with my — my appearance, which wasn’t there before, so why I should be looked at like some kind of freak _now_ —”

Oh. Oh dear. He hadn’t expected that to come out at all, had he?

He closed his eyes, drew his chin up. “So. An explanation, if you please.”

A beat of silence.

“_Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open.

Crowley had moved closer to him, hunched forward, seeming almost to tremble on the edge of another step. The golden snake eyes locked on Aziraphale’s much more plain ones, holding an expression that made no sense. Sorrow and anger and something else, something unfamiliar, all mixed together within those depths, adding up to something Aziraphale couldn’t name. “Wrong with you,” Crowley said. “Wrong with _you_. You think there’s _anything_ wrong with _you_?”

“Then why else have you been doing it?”, Aziraphale snapped back. “It can’t be because —”

He closed his mouth very firmly on the rest.

Another step, and Crowley stood within reach of Aziraphale.

_Close enough to touch._

He wouldn’t, though. He wouldn’t actually want to touch Aziraphale, because — oh, because who _would_ want to, after all, what interest could there be in that, demon or no — 

Crowley raised a shaking hand.

_Goodness. I don’t think I’m breathing._

The hand fell on Aziraphale’s shoulder, a light clasp. Friendly. Which was only reasonable. Crowley was his best, dearest, his most _treasured_ friend. Aziraphale would be selfish to ask for anything more.

_Unfortunately, it seems I’m very, very selfish._

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned, for just a moment, on the hand which rested against Aziraphale’s shoulder. When he spoke, it was in the vague direction of Aziraphale’s chest. “You don’t know what’s changed? Everything. Everything has. They aren’t watching anymore, and we’re alone, and we’re free.” The fingers on Aziraphale’s shoulder tightened. “So I keep thinking, right, now I can. Keep saying to myself, ‘Tell him. Tell him. Tell him _now_, you idiot demon, he’s right there. All you have to do is say three bloody little words.’ But I can’t.”

Aziraphale’s mouth moved soundlessly.

The demon raised his head to look into Aziraphale’s eyes again. “So I try to show it, I touch your hand or your arm, because I can, now, I can do that too, because we’re on _our_ side now, it’s just _us_.” His free hand stole to Aziraphale’s other shoulder. “Thinking maybe I don’t have to say it. Maybe you’ll just know. You’re so _clever_, I can’t see how you don’t just _know_.”

This wasn’t what Aziraphale thought it was. It wasn’t, because demons couldn’t possibly fall in —

_Do you really think you believe that rot?_

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with you, Aziraphale, please. Listen.”

Crowley stepped back, and Aziraphale barely suppressed an undignified little sound of protest. The demon’s hands still rested on Aziraphale’s shoulders. Held him back at arm’s length, now.

“Listen.”

The blazing yellow eyes twitched across Aziraphale’s face, then downward. Took in his body, his silly, _round_ body, so completely unlike Crowley’s own, and even though Aziraphale didn’t normally much care about the size of his corporation, he found himself embarrassed of it now.

“Do you know what I see right now, Aziraphale?”

The eyes returned to his. The hands on his shoulders shifted, tightened.

“Everything I want in the world. That’s all.”

_...he... does. He does, he **does**, he _**does** — 

Crowley closed his eyes. Let his hands fall limp to his sides. “Why _wouldn’t_ I want to look at you?”

Well. Because there were far more beautiful things to look at, obviously. Like Crowley.

Who loved him.

“Darling,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley actually stumbled back at the sound. His eyes flew open, impossibly bright, impossibly focused on Aziraphale. Who raised his arms in smiling invitation.

Crowley crept to him, as though afraid he’d bolt. He put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders again. Slipped them down, fingers curling lightly against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale felt his own arms inching around Crowley, and he closed his eyes, knowing that the demon’s face was now so close that surely, surely any second now he would feel —

It was not Crowley’s lips which touched his. It was Crowley’s forehead, coming to rest against his own, accompanied by a deep and groaning sigh that he felt in his heart.

“I want to hold you, angel,” Crowley said. “But I might not ever stop once I do.”

“Well, I should hope _not_,” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley laughed aloud, making Aziraphale grin.

The demon’s hands moved again, sliding down from the soft chest, over the softer curve of belly. Aziraphale felt his grin fade.

“Oh.” Crowley’s voice was faint. “So this is what it’s like.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Erm. Yes, I’m afraid I do have something of, of a _gut_, as it were, a bit shameful for an angel, I suppose, and —”

“Don’t make me say it all again.” Crowley traced his hands around, over Aziraphale’s sides, holding him there. “Pretty sure I’d discorporate if I had to say it all again.”

His nose bumped gently against Aziraphale’s. His breath ghosted against Aziraphale’s lips.

“I’m just... not like you, Crowley.”

“I’ve already got one of me. Don’t want another me. I want _you_.”

Oh.

Crowley stiffened, his warm gusts of breath cut off suddenly. _Three words_, he had said, _three bloody little words_, and Aziraphale knew, absolutely and with no hint of doubt, what Crowley had meant that middle word to be.

_Oh._

“I am so very, very much in love with you, my dear,” said Aziraphale.

He raised his head, letting all his soft weight lean into Crowley, who clutched him with desperate strength.

When their lips met, it was with the exhale of a breath held for millennia.

Aziraphale remembered _oysters_, he remembered _it is a bit damp_, he remembered _oh, he’s not my friend_ and _how long have we been friends?_ and everything, _everything_ in between, before and since. He remembered a church, a bag, some books. Remembered something even more important saved that night. Saved by his own little angelic miracle. Saved and cherished and here with him now, arms around his waist, mouth on his.

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was muffled, the word given between one kiss and the next. “_My_ angel.” Another kiss. “You’re just so —” Another. “I —” One more, just a touch of trembling lips, but oh, how it lingered.

Aziraphale threaded his fingers though Crowley’s hair, shivering a little as the demon buried his face against his shoulder. “Take your time, my love. Take as long as you need.”

“Six thousand years,” Crowley moaned against his lapel.

_Oh, beloved..._

“Six thousand more years and I’ll still be here.” Aziraphale began stroking the scarlet hair. “A hundred thousand, if you’ll have me still. Millions. Forever.” Crowley made a tiny broken sound, and Aziraphale had to work hard to keep a tremor out of his voice. “Who else is going to keep you out of trouble?”

“Got it backwards, there.” Crowley turned his head and placed a delicate kiss on the side of Aziraphale’s jaw. “You get _into_ trouble. I get you out of it.”

“We could change things up every few eons, I suppose —”

“Don’t change.” Crowley’s arms squeezed harder for a moment. “Don’t change anything.”

Aziraphale leaned against the demon again, pleased when his weight was borne up without any hint of protest. “Well. I might want to try your bebop eventually.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley said, with three other words glimmering just behind.

“I know.”

When, at length, Crowley pulled back from their embrace, Aziraphale let him; it didn’t seem that he was planning to go very far, after all, and indeed he did not. He stepped back, holding Aziraphale’s hands across the gap, smiling so gently that Aziraphale felt himself blushing just to see it.

The shining golden eyes traced his face again, not in rapid flickers this time but slow and careful, noting every detail. They dropped down, drifting over his throat, his shoulders and chest. They caressed his rounded middle with no slip at all of that tender smile. Down Aziraphale’s legs, all the way to the toes of his shoes; and then the eyes locked with his again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley said again. His smile edged into a grin. “But I guess I’m stuck with you.”

“My _dear_ fellow —” Aziraphale began. 

But then there was a demon on him, eager arms thrown around him and laughing mouth against his own. There were kisses stealing his words, and impossibly gentle touches of hands on his back, sweeping up his shoulders, curling into his hair.

There were golden eyes that looked at him with love.

Aziraphale magnanimously decided to let Crowley have the last word this time. There would, after all, be plenty of others.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one, whether it's a single emoticon, a copy-pasted line, a keysmash, an entire novel of feelings, or whatever. I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said in comments, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured.
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too, and I would love to talk to you there. It's mostly just reblogs of Good Omens things that I want to keep around (with novels in the tags, usually), but there's [original GO-related content](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-original-post) here and there (some of which is about WIPs!).
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> I hope you're having a fantastic day.


End file.
